


The Trouble With Julian Mannox

by Frumion_III



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: 1920s gays, AU, Author is proud of his OC, Bisexual Disaster Tommy Shelby, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexual Tommy Shelby, Gay Panic, Gen, Help I Am No Longer In Control, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I did, Julian Mannox is great I love him, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Third Person Limited, PTSD, Past Grace Burgess/Tommy Shelby - Freeform, Polari and other fun historical dialects, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Tommy Shelby, Post-Season/Series 01 AU, Power Imbalance, Prostitution, The Peaky Blinders - Freeform, Tommy Shelby Has Issues, Tommy Shelby Needs a Hug, What am I doing?, couldn't get this idea out of my head so here you go, have fun, this has been fun, writing fanfiction is how I deal with enjoying any and all forms of media now apparently
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-25 00:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30080673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumion_III/pseuds/Frumion_III
Summary: In which Grace Burgess shooting IRA affiliated persons without thinking is a pattern, not a one off issue, and she has more enemies back home than she realises. When one follows her to The Garrison, Tommy Shelby is totally unprepared for his life, business and sense of self to be turned upside down, but ready or not, that's what he gets.Julian Mannox has a chip on his shoulder the size of Ireland, a wicked smile and a plan for vengeance that might end up burning the whole bloody country to the ground. Tommy's also pretty sure he's a whore, knows he's a first rate thief and begins to realise as their paths cross repeatedly, that he's more insane than not, but Tommy's a Peaky Fucking Blinder. It's nothing he can't handle, right?
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Original Character(s), Tommy Shelby/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

Later Tommy would see it as ironic, that the split second before everything went to shit Grace chose the toast she did. “May you be in Heaven a full half-hour before the devil knows you're dead.” she says with a smile. No sooner had they clinked their glasses together than the Garrison’s door opens with a bang. It had been locked. Someone's picked _his_ fucking locks. Tommy turns, wearing a dangerous expression that freezes on his face as he takes in the figure standing in the doorway.

For all the force the door had been flung open with, the young man who steps past it can’t be more than 19 at the fucking most and looks like a strong breeze might knock him down. Caught half way between boy and man, he has a thin, freckled face framed by a wild mop of brown curls, gold glasses and a mouth which might have been girlish if it wasn’t for the beginnings of stubble growing beneath it. A suit almost two inches too short in the leg speaks to a recent growth spurt and a poor boy’s strained finances. The mad gleam in his eye belongs to a man who, like all of them really, didn't come back from France whole. A three inch flick blade of all things glinting in his left hand muddles the image further. It’s a woman’s blade. A whore’s blade, held between thin fingers in a steady hand. He clearly knows how to use it. Tommy can tell. He holds it like he knows exactly how messy stabbing someone can get. The first thing he says is "Gracie. Long time no see."

The young man’s accent is rougher than Grace’s. This is clearly no gentleman, for all he seems to share a past with Grace. Grace herself stiffens at the man’s words, panic bleeding into the air between them. Her breathing picks up, her eyes finding doors and windows both as they fill with a desperate kind of fear. Tommy narrows his eyes, right hand creeping towards the back of his hat. No one gets to make his people feel like that, not without paying in blood. He could slash the man before he ever got into range with that whore’s blade of his. Still might. Behind Tommy, Grace shifts uncomfortably, and Tommy takes a step to the left, putting himself between her and the stranger, who looks between them with a mocking grin.

“I see you've moved down in the world, or appeared to anyhow.” He says. Tommy doesn't quite know if the man’s talking about him or The Garrison, but either way he’s clearly not impressed. He’s also about thirty seconds from a blinding, but the wording of it catches Tommy and tugs at the mingling curiosity and doubt he feels about his lovely barmaid. _Appeared to._ This young man, whoever he is, is offering a piece of the puzzle that is Grace. Tommy can’t let himself spill any blood just yet.

“I don’t know what you mean by—” She begins quietly, cutting her denial off when the man snorts. There’s a tremor in her voice that aches somewhere deep in Tommy's chest. He doesn’t want to look at that too closely, not with everything he’s already got going on. He doesn’t have time.

"What's your business here?" He asks instead. The man’s eyes flicker to Tommy for the first time and even at the distance of a room they burn. It’s interesting. He’s all hate, this slip of a thing, it rolls off him in waves. Tommy wants to know where it all comes from.

"I'm here for family." He eventually settles on, eyes flickering back to Grace, who flinches again at the emphasis on the last word. "Tell me,” He asks, made a boy again by the wet sheen in his eyes, “Do you have a little sister?" He asks it without looking back to Tommy, who nods slightly anyway, assuming the question was meant for him. At that the stranger’s face splits into a wide grin, one with a manic, cutting edge Tommy doesn’t quite like the look of that makes him more man than boy once more. "And if someone had shot her dead at 14, would you not feel justified in a little vengeance?" He asks, the question almost innocently offered to the room. Tommy blinks slowly, words losing their meaning until Grace takes a step towards the back room and Tommy's hand is shooting out across the bar to grab her arm. He can’t let her slide away now that he might finally learn something about the truth of her past. He wants answers, an explanation. He wants to _know_.

"I might." He says quietly, tries not to see Ada's body crumple in his mind's eye as Grace twists in his grip, a pleading look on her face. Tries to pretend he wouldn’t care about dead sisters, with the way Ada had been fucking acting lately, knows he would. Tries not to smell blood he knows isn't there. Fails. “Sit down then, I'm listening.” He says after probably too long. The man, rather than sitting at a table, chooses to join Tommy at the bar. It’s another interesting move. He’s positioned himself a little out of reach of Tommy's arm (but not his hat's edges, should he need them) between Grace and all but one of the visible doors in the room. The blade in the man’s hands disappears. When his eyes flicker back to Tommy they swim with something undefined and ugly. Up close Tommy notices how dark they are behind those gold frames in the pale face they occupy. The effect is slightly eery, not that Tommy would admit to it out loud. 

"My name," he says, his eyes back on Grace even though he clearly speaks for Tommy’s benefit. "Is Julian Mannox.” Tommy blinks slowly, not letting his amusement show. It certainly suits the man’s bent looks, a name like that. “Six months ago my little sister Addie died because our darling Grace here thought she was in bed with some IRA men and didn't bother to check before shooting.” He continues, blade reappearing in his hands as he speaks. “She wasn’t, by the way, not at fucking fourteen. She was visiting our Ma.”

“Was your Ma?” Tommy asks, not bothering to conceal any of the amusement in his voice.

“What?” Asks the man, and Tommy has to laugh.

“A whore for IRA men.” He looks at Mannox’s face expectantly, watching for a tightening jaw or narrowing eyes, but finds neither. Instead, he brushes a curl out of his eyes and shrugs easily, nodding. Tommy’s face doesn’t change at that, but it wants to. It’s a strange man indeed, who would shrug off such an insult to his mother, no matter how true.

“What of it?” He asks, and Tommy lets a small smile cross his face.

“Nothing.” Says Tommy, his grip tightening on Grace’s arm as she twists in his hands. His eyes snap to hers. “Now what business would you have shooting whores?”

"Mr Shelby, please-" begins Grace. Mannox looks between them and giggles. There’s no other word for it, that delicate laugh hidden as soon as it appears behind a long fingered hand.

"Oh, _Mr Shelby, please_ —" He echoes, drawing out the plea into a mockery of a moan. Tommy feels something twist low in his stomach at the words falling from the man's lips, but dismisses the sensation. He doesn’t have time for whatever that is either. “I take it you don't know who she really is?” Mannox’s question brings him back to the present with a lurch.

“But you do.” It’s a statement, not a question, but he’s answered as if it was one.

"I hope you've been an upstanding citizen of this good country Mr Shelby," He says, laughing eyes flickering around the room, doubtful, "Because your pretty barmaid is a medalled officer of the law.”

The silence that follows will haunt Tommy for years, he can feel it joining the endless fucking ranks of things his mind holds against him. It’s a dead thing, that too-long absence of denial, wrapping the three of them in its choking grip until he almost forgets what noise sounds like. Tommy can hear the pause between beats of his heart, can feel the lies Grace has told click into place in the unsettling picture the young man has painted. The seconds slow to a stop. Betrayal curls hot and angry in Tommy's mind, and the world starts to close in around him. The girl he had thought he half-loved before this moment stands there, frozen, saying nothing. Grace's silence slides a careful, serrated knife between his ribs. When she speaks the words come a half-second too late to be convincing. An eternity. The pause between heartbeats is long enough for a lie to echo. Hers do. 

"You honestly think anyone would believe that?" She tries, but her words are shaking under the weight of their fucking lies now. She directs them at Mannox but it doesn’t matter. They hurt Tommy all the fucking same. Her eyes are once more flickering to exits, but Tommy’s grip is iron around her upper arm. She’ll have to fucking shoot him too if she wants out of this little conversation. The man laughs, head thrown back and slender throat bared to the room as the sound echoes through the tense space between them.

"Your good friend Mr Shelby already does.” He says it with confidence, and even through his hurt and anger Tommy acknowledges that Mannox is good. He has to be, to have picked up on the all but imperceptible changes in Tommy’s grip on her arm, the minute shifts in his expression. Almost unnervingly good, for someone so young.

“Surely you can’t possibly believe—” Grace tries, turning to Tommy with wide, beseeching eyes, but she’s desperate now and they can all hear it. Even now he knows the truth, her voice is beautiful, distracting. Tommy closes his eyes, locks away the part of him that still wants to believe something, anything they had shared was real.

“You’re a liar Grace. I already knew that.” Says Tommy flatly after a beat of silence. “Now a copper too.”

Mannox smiles darkly as Grace begins to try and tear herself away, failing to manage anything close. Her nails cut into Tommy’s skin but he doesn’t care, can barely feel it through the blood thumping in his mind. Tommy narrows his eyes, anger mounting dangerously. Mannox sees that too. “Ah, the truth. Such a powerful thing in the wrong hands.” He says with a grin. "Now tell me Grace, seeing as your current operation has been just a little compromised, what were you doing in this forsaken fucking town in the first place? Still at the back and call of the venerated Inspector Campbell I presume?" Tommy swallows harshly around the insult to his city, chokes it down. Realises as he does so how well the arrivals in his life of Grace and Campbell coincided, kicks himself for not putting it together on his own. Had a pretty face really got to him so easily?

"Its none of your business." Says Grace in a clipped, fearful tone that still managed to be furious.

"And killing children isn't yours. Still, here we are." Replies Mannox. He was obviously going for a light tone, but it falls short, too painful, too raw a wound. Tommy needs a fucking drink. Behind him the door opens again, and before Tommy can, Mannox is striding across the room as if he owns the place and actually shooing Tommy's boys out of the doorway. 

"Out." He says, obviously expecting his order to be followed. There’s enough authority in his voice that it takes Arthur a second to snap out of mindless obedience. “Pub's closed today.” Mannox continues, and Tommy squashes the urge to raise an eyebrow. For a young man with barely enough years to call himself even that, Tommy thinks to himself as Arthur squares up, Julian Mannox is a confident little shit.

"Who the fuck are you?" Says Arthur, violence hovering on the edge of the question. Tommy can tell he’s maybe eight seconds from throwing a punch, wonders if Mannox sees the razor’s edge he’s walking. His answer suggests not.

"The fucking king of England.” he says, cocksure and mocking again. Does he know how to be anything else? Tommy raises his voice slightly just before the coiled violence in Arthur goes any further.

“He’s a friend, Arthur. There’s whiskey at home.” Arthur and what sounded like a few others grumble (John’s voice is notably absent, and Tommy briefly wonders where he is) their words blurring just beyond Tommy's hearing into a meaningless sound, easily ignored.

A moment later Mannox closes the door and turns back to Tommy and Grace. "Friend, am I?" He says, mouth quirking into an odd smile. Tommy shrugs. "The enemy of my enemy." He offers, eyes flickering to Grace as she flinches from him again. He pretends it doesn’t hurt. 

"Well, _friend_ ," says Julian, tone childishly delighted by the word, "We have a problem. If we let Grace go, she'll slip through my fingers again." Somehow Mannox had made himself comfortable enough, between walking into The Garrison and upending Tommy’s whole fucking day, to pick up Grace's forgotten glass of whiskey and drain it before speaking. "If we don't you'll have to watch her die like my sister did.”

Tommy closes his eyes, bites his tongue against the tide of feeling. The clock’s ticking slows to a standstill. Their kiss in the church flashes across his minds eye and then her eyes, glittering with want and refusing to meet his as he asked about her past. It hurts too much to see her in pain (she’s a child killer). Her warm half smile comes to him next, the echoing song she had brought back to his life after France had stripped it all away. It hurts too much to think she’s one of them fucking uniform pigs (working with the worst of them, that fucking bastard who promised to put Finn away where he would end up raped). The way her hair could glow in the light of a match is the next memory to rear its head, the way she herself could almost glow in the right light. It hurts too much to know she'd probably shot that IRA fucker (which would surely bring a hell down on all their heads soon enough). It’s all meaningless of course.

The future matters. Power matters. His family matters. Love? He pushes the thought away. His chance at love died in the endless mud, the living death that came for them all in France. It has no place in the life Tommy is building now. He looks at Mannox, fails to muster up a smile and nods, the motion small, his decision made. Something moves then, and too late Tommy sees the bottle in Grace's free hand. Mannox moves to block it but he’s a split second too late, the angle’s wrong. Tommy’s world goes dark.


	2. Chapter 2

While Grace bottles whoever Mr Shelby happens to be, Julian goes for the gun. He reaches the place where it was concealed behind the bar before she does. He’d seen her look towards it earlier, when he first unlocked the door, and his hands are steady on the trigger. He tries to smile, when he turns the same gun that killed Addie on her murderer. His face won't make the expression properly. He barely manages a twitch. Six shots ring out (the same six that echo constantly in his head, he even timed his shots to their pattern) Grace falls. He thought it would feel different, revenge. Thought it might feel good. Hoped he would at least feel something. He doesn't. He hasn't felt a thing since his mother died in that fetid cell, two weeks after little Addie. He can't remember how. Unable to stand the empty, empty apathy, Julian turns away. 

Then he realises how much of a _fucking hassle_ he’s just created for himself. Bodies aren’t light, he would know, and shit he had meant to force her to walk to the docks first. The corpse was thrown backwards by one of the shots hard enough to send the bottles behind the bar crashing to the floor, and there’s a slick mix of blood and whiskey pooling around her. Mr Shelby is slumped over the bar, bruises already rising where he was hit, and it strikes Julian then, that if anyone comes in now he’ll either be arrested or killed. Probably killed. No, he realises, mulling over Mr Shelby’s reaction to Grace’s real job. Definitely killed. He swears viciously, shoves a handy metal bar (he has his suspicions about the stains) through the handles on the door and pours himself another whiskey from one of the surviving bottles. He could do with more, but he needs a clear head for this. He has to _think._

Julian debates calling in a favour, but eventually decides against it. He doesn’t like to let people settle their debts to him so quickly, and besides, he hardly knows anyone here. He needs every connection he has, can’t go burning through one for a little light manual labour. That means he’s going to have to get creative. A conveniently placed barrel half concealed in the shadows of the back room chooses that moment to catch his eye, and he sighs. Well, it might work. If he’s lucky. Not seeing the point of keeping things clean, he empties the pint or two left in the bottom of the barrel out over the mess already behind the bar, cracks his knuckles and begins. Julian can only hope Mr Shelby and whoever he associates with won’t take the loss too personally.

Thirty five sweaty, bloodstained minutes later, Julian’s staring down into the cold waters of a nearby canal. It took a surprising amount of creative twisting to fit all of a person into a beer barrel, to say nothing of the fucking mess. The docks are all but abandoned, at least at this time of night. He opens the barrel, throws the gun in on top of the corpse and then puts the lid back on. He kicks a hole in one side to stop it floating, pushes it into the dock and watches it sink. It’s done. 

For a long time he stands there, staring down into the water where the barrel sank and wondering what to feel. Addie’s murderer is dead, true, but it hasn’t brought her back. She deserved better. Shit, Addie had deserved so much more than fourteen war torn and poor years to live. She was smart with numbers and quotes and things like that, wicked smart, she would have gone so far given half a fucking chance. Further than he had, that’s for sure. She never would now. He and his mother had worked so fucking hard to shield her from the harsher parts of their lives, but then he’d gone away to war and it had all gone to shit. 

They were supposed to go home, when they came back from the war. He didn't. The time he spent fighting in France took his home from him. The war took and it took and it bloody took and when he got back (without Graham, without Oliver, without any of the boys he’d left with. All of them were dead. All of them but him.) too much had changed to call his Ma's place home. His mother was sick, little Addie was barely keeping her head above water and some sick fuck had been leaning on her about going into ‘the family business’. 

He’d shot the fucker, but that had only made things more complicated. When you shoot a respected unionist the IRA get interested. The police follow IRA like bloodhounds, and where Campbell’s police go, death hangs in the air. It's his fault Addie died. He brought it down on all of them and he knows it. Sometimes he can convince himself that it’s not his doing entirely, how fucked everything got, but right now the cold, black dock water looks almost hypnotically inviting. He turns away, know’s as he does that he’s too much of a coward to choose that path. He’s never been a believer in much, but on the off chance that there is an afterlife he’s going to avoid it or as long as possible. He’s six kinds of damned as it is. No sense in heading down to the fire and brimstone any sooner than he has to.

He walks all night through this dim, strange city of black stone and sprawling alleyways. Twists and turns surprise him, leading him on looping journeys through the darkness that return him to the docks. He doesn't feel tired, not yet, too wound up on nothingness, barely able to breathe, sure he'll die if he sleeps. Now that the six shots he’d seen rip Addie’s life away are avenged, his ears ring instead with the other ghosts he carries with him.

His mother, her sickness, that final bitter attempt to get her the medicine she needed. The trenches, the shells. He's shaking now, but still he walks. It's all he can think to do. Then his mind returns to Graham, that last night they shared. Watching as Graham stepped out in front of him in the mud, took gunfire for him, died to to save him. The way his body had tangled in the muddy barbed wire. He sinks to the ground then, can’t stop smelling the death and mud his mind won’t fucking leave behind. He hugs his knees and tries desperately not to let his mind fall apart. Some nights it's not so bad, and he can almost pretend, pretend he can forget, pretend he'll wake up to find it all a nightmare. Some nights he’s busy enough, lost enough in paying arms to ignore the sick smell of dying men. Tonight is not one of those nights. Tonight his head is heavy with screams. 

The dawn brings with it the friendly clatter of a city coming to life. It hasn't Belfast's familiar din, but the sky lightens to a dull grey all the same and today at least, it seems that's enough to shut his monsters up. Julian uncurls from his slumped position, wonders what he’s going to do about food. Wishes he'd checked Grace's pockets before sinking the body. He has some money left over from the last of his clients in Belfast, but he suspects he's going to need it for bribes when he goes for Campbell, and he could use a new pair of trousers besides. He’s still fucking growing, believe it or not. He'll be able to find clients somewhere in this shit hole city though, of that he’s more or less certain, and his stomach is beginning to clench painfully now so he resigns himself to buying breakfast. 

The day ahead of him yawns, pointless and eternal. He doesn't know enough about Campbell's movements yet to avenge his mother. He’s at a loose end. He doesn't even know which patches of the city will find him clients the fastest. His shaking fingers close around the handle of his mothers knife, the familiar weight of it comforting in his pocket. The hours blur into mist, more grey streets, more walking, more listening to the city's whispers. Julian's getting a few bearings now, learning a little about who runs what beneath the surface, and who to avoid. Afternoon and then evening fall, and the names on everyone’s lips seems to be the Peaky Blinders and Billy Kimber, but as the grey skies begin to fade into dark he hears the name Shelby just as often. It’s almost midnight by the time he’s put together the facts. 

The Shelby brothers (he’s heard three different first names) lead the Peaky Blinders gang. The brothers are intent on clawing their way to power and apparently part gypsy. The gang is a violent, well oiled machine that banded together before France, but came back a different kind of vicious. The name of the gang comes from the razor bladed newsboy hats they wear. Billy Kimber runs the races. He and the Peaky Blinders are currently working together in some war against another gypsy family. Julian doesn’t know what Grace was investigating, working in that pub, but whatever it is, he’s starting to realise why the english brought someone like Campbell into the city. His blood runs a little cold at how much of a fucking mess he made of their pub, but it can’t be helped now. _He_ thinks taking Grace off their hands more than makes up for it, but only time will tell if they agree. Julian forces himself to eat something, tries not to worry and wonders what the fuck he’s supposed to do with the rest of the night. 

He ends up looking for work. There’s no harm in having a bit more money after all, and it makes for good leverage, what he does. He follows the whispers to the right street, the right entrance to the right alley, and he can feel eyes hot on his lower back as soon as he walks past. He makes the necessary half turn and catches himself on brown eyes, hair the colour of dirt, a plain face, workers hands. Not bad, and by the look of his coat he’ll have the money for it. Then Julian takes in the man’s stance, his bearing and the discomfort of some of the men lounging against the other wall. He smiles darkly. Plain clothes or not, street of disrepute or not, the man holds himself like a sharpy. _This_ is how he’s going to get Campbell. He meanders over, makes himself at home in the spaceagainst the wall to the immediate left of the man. “Everything alright officer?” He says quietly when he’s close enough to do so, a sly, practiced smile sliding into place. The man starts, clearly not expecting anyone to call him on what he is so blatantly. 

“Just _bona_.” Says the man. He emphasises the Polari. Julian hides a laugh. As if being here isn’t evidence enough of what the man is, what he’s looking for. “I’m off duty.” Says the man. 

“And I thought you came here _looking_ for crime.” Says Julian with a downward glance.

“Only honest trade.” the man replies, and Julian laughs, pulls out his cigs. He feigns not knowing where his matches are, an excuse to pull his mother’s knife out of his pockets. The man sees of course, and gets his own matches out, lights one and pulls Julian close. One hand is on the side of Julian’s jaw, the other holding the flame close to his cigarette. Julian takes a slow drag once it’s lit and pulls back, grin crooked. “You’re the prettiest fucking dilly boy I ever saw.” says the man, and Julian puts a hand to his heart, pretends at modesty. 

“Ah, you’re nanti so meese yourself officer.” He lies, and let’s his eyes slide downwards once more. The man smiles. 

“How much for a night?” He asks, and Julian smiles wider. 

Enough money to buy a new suit when the shops open for the day, as it turns out, and enough inside information to make his mouth water. Julian’s less concerned with bribes now that he’s got at least one sharpy in his pocket. Things are falling into place surprisingly easily, so easily in fact, that by the time he’s put on his new suit and found himself a better fitting coat to go with it he’s even beginning to like Birmingham. It’s a vile, corrupted, dingy shit hole to be sure, but it’s starting to feel less like he’s sinking in the mire and more like this might prove the best battle ground to take Campbell down on. He seems to hold less power here and none of the local sharpies are too fond of him. They don’t like his methods, according to the _very_ helpful John from last night, and probably won’t go out of their way for him if it’s a case of solely personal danger. 

Campbell’s been making enemies as fast as he can it seems. Julian’s almost worried someone else’ll off the bastard before he gets the chance. One of the people most likely to do so, he quickly finds out, is none other than the mysterious Mr Shelby. All roads in this town seem to lead back to him one way or another. There’s an interesting story from police higher ups involving a _lot_ of guns, a dead IRA man and The Garrison that sounds like it’s the reason why Campbell’s here at all. One thing has become very clear over the last forty eight hours. In avenging his sister, Julian seems to have made some very powerful, very violent friends (or, if they are less forgiving about the smashed bottles, enemies). He does his best to ignore the small voice in the back of his head that wants to add _pretty_ to that description list. Whichever Mr Shelby he met is almost certainly naff and far too dangerous to get tangled up with even if he isn’t. Julian is going to The Garrison to talk business and not, he would like to reiterate, because of blue eyes pale enough to drown in. After all, they have a common enemy. 


	3. Chapter 3

Tommy chooses the spot by the door to drink and carefully doesn’t think about Grace. Instead he turns his attention to the last few days, and _fuck_ have they been days to remember. The Lee wedding had been a success, Ada’s bloody child had been born, not to mention their bastard father had turned up out of the blue yesterday and would no doubt be causing all sorts of fucking trouble. It had been touch and go to even get the message about the wedding to Ada in time with Grace gone, but he had pressed a disgruntled Lizzie into service as a delivery girl and Ada had arrived on time. Freddie’s face when he arrived after the birth had been worth the truce, and the little Shelby-Thorne child might turn out to be an asset in the end. 

Tommy hated being the fucking last to know (well except Arthur, but he didn’t _need_ to know things. Tommy did) but it wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever heard, now that he’d calmed down a bit. A wife and child tied Freddie down a little, might end up reigning in his more risky plans. That was no bad thing on it’s own, and with their truce holding for now, Ada was back to speaking to him. It was nice, if slightly strained. There wasn’t enough _nice_ in Tommy’s fucking life right now (or ever) so it had made for, if nothing else, an enjoyable change of pace. The door chooses that moment to swing open forcefully, jolting Tommy out of his musings. 

Once he sees who it is he blinks, surprised, and spares enough of a thought to wonder if Mannox had ever actually been taught to open a door quietly, and why he’s here at all. He’d assumed Mannox would leave town after — well. After his business here was complete, not to mention the fucking state he left the Garrison in last time he was here. Tommy had woken up to Arthur yelling about his fucking pub and John looking murderous as high bloody hell, standing in a layer of whiskey, beer and blood an inch and a half thick. Now Mannox is walking back into The Garrison, bold as fucking brass with shadows under his eyes and a slight, telling limp Tommy doesn't want to think about too much. He’s got nothing against what Mannox does, but it’s definitely not for him and he’d rather not dwell on the mechanics of it all. 

“Mr Shelby.” Says Mannox, an easy smile on his face and a better fitting suit on the rest of him that together make him look at least a bit less out of place. 

“Mannox.” He replies, knocking back the rest of his whiskey. “What brings you here tonight? You coming to compensate us for the damages?” 

“A business proposition of sorts,” Julian laughs slightly, smile twisting, “Though not my usual, and an apology for the mess.” Tommy pointedly doesn’t react to what he _thinks_ is an innuendo, not sure how he feels about it. He’s glad at any rate that they’re not being to closely observed. He doesn’t mind what other men get up to in their own company, but the Shelby name doesn’t need that sort of association to deal with. “I hear you’ve some issues with one Mr Campbell?” adds Mannox. 

“And if I have?” Asks Tommy. Mannox laughs at that, and again the sound is strangely disarming. Tommy’s finding it oddly hard to focus.

“Then I’d say we have another common enemy.” says Mannox with a slightly twisted smile. Tommy closes his eyes, does his best not to wonder what Mannox ended up doing to Grace. He suspects it wasn’t pleasant. There had been a _lot_ of blood in the Garrison when he woke up.

“I can deal with Campbell on my own.” He says, lighting up a second cigarette. 

“Yeah, that’s my problem.” Says Mannox, and there’s a hard edge to his voice that surprises Tommy almost more than the words. He had been expecting Mannox to deny it, claim he would be able to help at the very least. No one seems to have taught him how to play this game, but his anti-logic is sure of it’s self enough to throw Tommy a little off balance. He’s not following any of the usual rules. 

“What makes your problems my business?” 

“I dealt with a spy who was looking for the guns right under your fucking nose and flashing a pretty smile to distract you. Besides, you said we were friends.” Says Mannox. It throws Tommy for a fucking loop. How the fuck did some half grown bloody kid who’s been in his city less that a fucking week find out about those guns? He didn’t think the whispers were that fucking loud.

“I did say that.” He says, his face betraying nothing, and Mannox raises an eyebrow, waiting. Tommy sighs, continues, “So you have my attention.” Mannox’s expression shifts slightly at that, but Tommy can’t tell exactly what it means in the split second before he speaks, the flicker of whatever-it-was is gone. 

“I want to be the one to kill him.” 

Tommy closes his eyes for a half second, opens them again and exhales heavily. Of fucking _course_ Mannox is set on killing Campbell personally. He’s on a revenge mission. Tommy should have been expecting something like this. Mannox came to bloody head him off, not try and ingratiate himself. Tommy kind of wants to laugh. 

“Okay,” He says, “I won’t stop you, but I do have a condition.” Tommy tosses his cigarettes down on the bar between them, shifting so that he’s leaning slightly too close to the young man for comfort. The movement is supposed to be threatening, but in response Mannox only tilts his head to one side, a strange smile on his face. Tommy realises too late, how leaning so far into another man’s personal space might be taken if the person you were threatening was bent. It’s only then that it hits him how fucking ironic the whole situation is. He’d used almost the exact same words when he prepositioned Grace, and that had actually ended in a kiss. Shit. 

“What might this condition be Mr Shelby?” Asks Mannox, voice lower. His eyes have shifted again, like they did earlier, only they’re hopeful now. That’s when Tommy realises Mannox is attracted to him. This had the potential to be useful, very useful. He blinks slowly and smiles. 

“You tell me how you found out about those bloody guns.” He says, letting anger seep into his tone. Mannox blinks away his lust admirably fast, Tommy’ll give him that. His voice is level when he speaks, and if Tommy’s life didn’t depend on making correct snap judgements he’d think he made a mistake.

“I made the acquaintance of a talkative young charpering omi.” Mannox switched to polari to describe the copper, and Tommy raises an eyebrow, hopes it means what he thinks it does. 

“Which one? I’ve a question or two I’d like answered myself.” He says, and Mannox laughs. There’s still something a bit bewitching about the sound, but Tommy can’t figure out what. 

“Client’s privilege I’m afraid.” Says Mannox, and Tommy frowns, wonders if his suspicions are correct. 

“Client?” He asks, and Mannox shakes his head with a laugh. 

“You’ve seen my knives.” 

“Could be a family heirloom.” Points out Tommy, and Mannox grins again. 

“Could be.” He says, but before Tommy gets the chance to reply the door opens with another bang. 

A man Tommy’s never seen before walks straight up to him without sparing a glance towards Mannox, who has, upon following Tommy’s line of sight, shifted into a notably more defensive posture. “Mr Shelby?” The man asks. Fucking Irish as well. Didn’t they _have_ doors over there? He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and turns to face the man. 

“Who’s asking?” He says, exhaling smoke. 

“Malachi bloody Byrne.” It’s Mannox who answers. His voice is flat now, hard as flint. “Didn’t expect to see you this side of the water.”

“Mannox.” Says the man, openly disgusted in turn.

“The one and only.” Mannox is smiling now, but it’s a forced, malicious thing. “How’s your nephew?” Byrne scowls darkly at that. 

“None of your business.” Says Byrne sharply. Tommy raises an eyebrow. 

Turning to Tommy as if to dismiss Mannox completely, Byrne continues. “A couple of months ago a man by the name of Ryan came looking to buy some goods from you. Mr Ryan met with an accident, he was shot.” 

“I heard.” Said Tommy, and though his eyes are fixed on Byrne he can _feel_ Mannox looking at him intently. Assessing, he would probably call it. He doesn’t quite know what it means. This uncertainty is becoming something of a fucking pattern with Mannox, and Tommy doesn’t like it. 

“He was a man with quite a mouth, I know that. Wondered if he made any enemies in here?” Says Byrne. 

“None that I know of.” he says evenly. 

“Not the kind of place to make enemies?”

“All are welcome here Mr Byrne.” Says Tommy. Byrne’s eyes flicker to Mannox and his lip curls.  
“So I can see. You're not a religious man, Mr Shelby?” There’s a slippery kind of violence in the words Tommy instinctively dislikes.

“God died in France.” He replies, staring at Byrne unblinkingly. He hears a snort and realises that Mannox is fucking laughing, the bastard. It’s infectious too, Tommy almost wants to smile now. He doesn’t, and when irritation flickers back across Byrne’s face he’s glad he stopped himself. 

“Ryan told you he was a member of the Irish Republican Army.” snaps Byrne, pointedly ignoring Mannox. “Was he still welcome?”

“Like I say. Any man who buys beer is welcome.” Tommy thinks he sees Mannox smile out of the corner of his eye, but he can’t spare a glance to be sure. It’s not like it fucking matters, and Byrne’s not so easily distracted a second time. 

“Perhaps you didn't believe him?” 

“In pubs, sometimes people say things, sometimes it's the whisky talking. It's hard to tell which is which.” It’s carefully neutral, and Tommy is ready for just about any response. Any response except the one he fucking gets, apparently, because what Byrne says is:

“As a teetotal man, I find that amusing. Except when it ends in tragedy.” 

Try as he might, Tommy can’t let it slide in the name of civil parley. Who fucking could? The man is mentally unsettled, that much at least is becoming clear. Tee- _fucking_ -total. 

“Would you like some water and cordial, Mr Burn?” He asks. Mannox doesn’t bother to disguise his laughter and there’s a smile tugging at his own lips, but Byrne barely pauses in his little speech. 

“You see, Mr Shelby, Ryan, for all his quick mouth, was indeed connected. Very well connected to our brotherhood by membership and blood. He was my cousin. I'm from South Armagh, I'm a man of influence there. Cordial and water will be grand, Mr Shelby, somewhere private perhaps.” He glances at Mannox, who smiles widely, knocks back another glass of whiskey he got from Tommy doesn’t know where. 

“Come with me.” Says Tommy. They make their way to the booth with Mannox’s laughter ringing in their ears, or at least Tommy does. 

One demeaning conversation later, Tommy watches Byrne walk away with a glare and thinks wistfully about shooting him. A glass of whiskey appears at his elbow in time to lull the impulse to violence, and Mannox arrives a half second later as if summoned. “He’ll kill you you know, if you tell him.” he says carefully, nodding to the door. “Me as well, if he can find me. The South Armagh lot are unstable.” 

“Do you really know his nephew?” Asks Tommy instead of acknowledging Mannox’s warning. Mannox laughs, shakes his head and Tommy snorts.

“I just know he has one. Thought it would get under his skin.” 

“How'd you know Byrne then?” He asks, and just like that Mannox’s laughter drains away. He levels a dead look towards Tommy, and all at once he can see it, how Mannox kills. He’s been badly broken somehow, it’s almost painful to watch. Tommy looks away. 

“So, Campbell.” He says, reaching for something that might stop Mannox looking around with that flat, dangerous stare. He’s not entirely fucking sure why he’s bothering in the first place, but he’s done it now. Might as well hear Mannox’s ideas. “What are you planning?” 

“It all depends on how fast you can get me Grace’s address. If you can get it before Thursday Campbell won’t see the weekend.”

“And if not?” Says Tommy quietly, still numb. 

“The plausible time frame for her absence expires, Campbell assumes you’re behind her disappearance, and everything goes to shit.” Tommy nods. 

“I’ll have it by this evening.” He lights another cigarette, turns to Mannox properly and raises an eyebrow. “Why am I giving you Grace’s address?” 

“I want to send flowers.” Replies Mannox flatly. Tommy flicks ash from his cigarette and shrugs, unaffected. Curiosity burns, but it will wait. That Mannox is asking him for the address at all means he'll have the leverage to get his answers soon enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I can't help myself. At the moment I'm going through a full on Peaky Blinders phase and apparently that's complete with a fanfiction I didn't even mean to write. I don't know when I became so dependant on writing to process literally anything I enjoy, but it's been a trip. I hope you liked this. Did I mention my slight obsession with the series? 
> 
> Let me know what you think about the story so far, I always love comments!! I'm honestly not sure how long it will be, or if I'll get it finished. Still, it's been good going so far. I will ATTEMPT to update weekly. but I have a bad track record of lying about this so don't hold me to it, what am I? A bloody machine? See you when I see you. 
> 
> Frumion.


End file.
